


It's always the Quiet Ones

by Dreaming_in_Circles



Category: Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: Backstory, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Did I say cannibalism?, Gilliam's a bastard, M/M, Mild Language and slurs, you know that?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1975578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_in_Circles/pseuds/Dreaming_in_Circles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He came in with a roar, but he was as silent as death forever after. He came in with blood, and he hasn't stopped bleeding since. He came in alone, and he left just the same.</p><p>A story about Grey, told through the eyes of Curtis and Gilliam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Calypop on Tumblr, who made a post asking for more Grey and seeing as I am as obsessed with this kid as she is, I felt obligated to comply. Plus, she gave me plot bunnies, so I cannot complain.  
> More about this movie can be found at [fyeahsnowpiercer](http://fyeahsnowpiercer.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, and I completely suggest you check it out.  
>  **Warnings.** Canonical violence and cannibalism and broken feelings (I mean, really, have you seen the movie?), plus non-canonical cannibalism and swearing and some offensive language. I personally mean no insult to anyone.  
>  Lastly. Writing this made me realize just how big an (insert expletive here) Gilliam is. Really. I _despise_ him now.  
>  Un-beta'd, so sorry.  
> Hope you enjoy.

"Current stop, Italy. Remember: nobody get off if you want to keep your place on the train." The guard yells before the group of them turn and leave, metal doors grating closed behind. The people disperse slowly from the headcount. There's nowhere to go. Nothing to do. No reason to rush. It's the kind of boring, flat, vapid nothing that Curtis can't stand. He's about as patient as most seventeen-year-old boys; that is to say, not at all.

He spends his days with those his age, all as anxious, restless, angry as he is. The few older people on board look at them as they pace the Tail and shake their heads. "Trouble," they all say. "Dangerous." And maybe they are, Curtis thinks as someone passes cigarettes around. Maybe they are looking for trouble, for danger. Anything, he decides, but this.

Not half an hour later, they can feel the train jerk into motion, the Tail cars swaying and rattling ominously. "It's because the train's so long," one of the adults had explained once. "Almost two miles long." 

"Two miles of this shit?" Someone had asked. Someone else laughed.

"No." The man said, ignoring the laughter and the language. "First class lives in luxury, second class certainly still nice, third gets benches to sleep on."

"What class are we?" Curtis had asked. He hadn't seen the ticket his parents had used to get him aboard, hadn't wanted to be here anyway. The world wouldn't freeze over; what a load of shit. 

"We're the cattle." The man had said, and continued quickly before anyone had the chance to get insulted. "Lowest class there is; standing room only."

"Got that bit right, James Bond." One of the kids had muttered, flicking his burnt-out cigarette at the man. Everyone laughed. Curtis, too.

There's no room on the train, no privacy, no civilization at all. People do what they want, there isn't anybody but the guards to give orders. And nobody ever gets on the train anymore. They stop at every station for absolutely no reason. Curtis is convinced it's because the whole "apocalyptic ice age" scare was over. The CW-7 had worked. It was time to get off the train.

But an hour after they first stop at the Italy station, the guards call another headcount. Everyone moves slowly, no reason to rush. Making the bastards wait a bit longer won't kill them.

Mason's there. All limbs and fine white suits and shinny medals and retarded overbite. Someone laughs at her. Someone always does.

"I realize," she starts, in her jerky form of speaking, "that the passengers in the Tail section are all rather young, but I still expect you to behave yourselves." She pauses, reviews them. Dares them to do it again. Curtis wonders what would happen if someone did.

Looking satisfied and no small amount smug, Mason continues. "I have a new passenger to present to you, the only lucky soul to make it to the Italian station before the worst of the snow storms. If you would please join me..." She turns, looks behind the guards, gestures someone Curtis can't see forward. Nothing happens.

"Come on." She says again with a disgusting smile. Her voice has gone high-pitched and saccharine. "Don't be shy."

"She's finally lost it!" Someone in the back shouts, and that gets her attention away from whoever she was trying to coax out. All eyes turn back, searching for the source.

"Who said that?" She snaps, her voice radiating irritation and strict discipline. Curtis decides that what happens next will be interesting. A slight peak in their flat plain of existence.

The guards are pointing and conferring amongst themselves in quiet voices Curtis can't distinguish. He's six rows from the front, five columns from the right wall. That's his place. Not close enough to hear, but enough to see the moment their expressions change. They found the man.

They must say as much to Mason, who gestures quickly, jerky, to the back. "Go get him." She hisses, but the microphone is still on, and her voice echoes throughout the car. The guards push into the headcount, stepping over, around, and on people as they please. It makes Curtis angry, makes his skin itch. But he's always looking for a fight, and has enough presence of mind to realize these would not be good people to start one with. There's always later.

They find the man they want, someone just as filthy as Curtis but slightly older, and drag him to the front of the group. He shouts insults the whole way up. It makes those around Curtis - his friends; the kids his age - laugh and snicker. It makes Curtis smile, all teeth.

They dump him up front and Mason tries to make a speech. One of her patented ones about disorder and chaos, and the need to avoid all of that in order to preserve the train and therefore human life and blah blah blah. It was patented for a reason; Curtis must have heard it a hundred times. But the man who swore won't let her get three words out in a row. He interrupts with insults and jabs and filthy jokes that make all the kids laugh and old Mister "Double-oh-Seven" sigh and the captain of the guard puts his rifle to the back of the man's neck and pulls the trigger.

It sounds like the firecrackers Curtis released on New Year's Eve, rattling up and down the train. No one screams this time though. As unexpected as it is, it's not a surprise. But everyone stops laughing. Everyone. And for a long minute, even Mason doesn't speak. The train rattles on, Tail swaying back and forth, metal creaking in a desperate attempt to fill the stale silence.

Curtis almost doesn't see him, despite the violent orange coat he wears. He moves slowly, silent as death itself, out from behind the guards. That violent orange jacket is about a dozen sizes too big for his skinny body, and appears to be the only shirt he has on. It's the fluorescent strips on the cuffs that catch Curtis' eye and lead him to the rest of this mystery person.

The person, he realizes, Mason was trying to introduce to them.

He's a child, no older than nine, all bones and coat, a wild rat's next of black curls on top of his head. He looks Italian, with olive skin, dark hair, dark eyes. He stares at the body on the ground, doesn't bother moving as blood creeps across the floor to touch his shoes and soak into his coat.

"Ah, here you are." Mason finds her voice again, and grabs onto the kid's arm, pulling him away from the body over to her side. He allows his body to be manipulated, if not doing anything to help her. "This is who I wanted to introduce you to. The young man we got off the Italian Station."

The kid finally drags his eyes from the body and looks up at her with a bland, uncaring expression. He'll fit right in here, Curtis decides as the kid turns that look out on the people assembled. His eyes skate over them, not sticking to anyone in particular.

"He's a little shy," Mason continues brightly. "We couldn't get him to tell us his name, but I have faith you can get him out of his shell. Would anyone like to volunteer to take charge of him?" The kid looks back up at Mason sharply, a slight frown on his face. Curtis wonders if he understands English. If he understands what she's talking about. "If no one volunteers, we'll have to assign him to an adult, at least for now. No one in the Front volunteered-"

Mason's grip on the child was fisted in his jacket. Now, she's simply holding an empty jacket. She looks down in shock, then back up to watch as the crowd parts to let the scrappy, half-naked kid disappear into the mess the train cars had become. Everyone stands frozen, no one looking particularly motivated to go find him, because disappear he did. Completely. Like a ghost.

"Well." Mason says. "I guess that's that, then." She drops the coat, steps around the body and blood, and exits the car. The door slides shut behind the guards and they're left with a body, a coat, and a ghost.

 

The person who sleeps below Curtis - a boy his own age - ended up with the coat. There was a scuffle over it, and Curtis got the fight he was looking for, along with a split lip and a bruised rib. But come morning, the coat was gone. The boy accused everyone he could see of stealing it and Curtis got another fight - this one unwanted - before the boy gave up and started searching for it. But no one found the coat. Or the kid.


	2. Survival

A few facts quickly become apparent about the "Ghost Kid," as most people call him. That he doesn't like other people is the most obvious. The first time Curtis sees him, he's hanging out under someone's bunk, watching Curtis and a friend devour some kind of uncooked instant-meal. He doesn't come out, but looks starved.

"Hey." Curtis elbows the kid next to him. "Give him some food." He points at the Ghost.

"Why?" The boy growls through a mouthful, scowling at first Curtis, then the Ghost.

Curtis had no answer to that question. "Because I said so." He growls back regardless, shoving half-heartedly at the boy's shoulder. He grumbles to himself some more, swallows, and digs a handful of meat and uncooked noodles from the container. 

"Here, kid-y, kid-y." He coos, stretching out to hold the food temptingly out in front of the Ghost's face. The nine-year-old doesn't move, but his eyes flash dangerously the closer the hand gets.

"Just drop the food there and let's go." Curtis says, picking up the mostly-empty package and standing. When his friend doesn't move, he kicks his leg. "I said, let's go!"

"This kid is going to get out from under the cot whether he wants to or not!" The teen snaps back with anger in his voice, before cooing honey-dripped lies at the Ghost.

"He's not an idiot; he knows what you're up to." Curtis says. He doesn't really care anymore what happens to the pair of them - never really did - but, like Mason, he thinks it'll be interesting.

"What're you talkin' about?!" The teen laughs, twisting his neck to look at Curtis. "The little bastard never speaks, never shows his head. He's probably so retarded, he doesn't even know what words are-- aahg!"

The boy cuts himself off with a cry and drops the food, tucking his hand in close to his chest in obvious pain. Curtis looks at the Ghost, who has red on his mouth as he reaches out a bone-thin hand to scoop the scattered food to himself. He shoves half of it into his mouth and has the other half in a death grip in his hand before he disappears deeper under the forest of cots.

"The little fucker bit me!" Curtis' friend yells, and Curtis can see red on his hand before he dives forward, hands scrabbling under the cots looking for the culprit. 

"Just leave him alone, man. He's not worth it." Curtis kicks at the boy's legs again, then turns and starts walking away, making sure the food bag crinkles noisily as he does so. It's enough to get his friend on his feet and back to Curtis' side, even if he doesn't stop whining. 

Curtis rarely sees the Ghost after that. On the few occasions he does, the child always glowers up at him. Every time he's skinnier an filthier and Curtis wishes the Ghost would just leave him alone. It's not like he had anything to offer to make the situation better. 

After a month, they finally run out of food. After a month, Mason brings proof that the world outside is frozen solid. After a month, they don't stop at the stations anymore. After a month, Curtis is very lost, very angry, and very, very hungry.

The only edible things in the entire Tail are the passengers themselves. They start with the weak, Curtis and his friends. The old man with the cough was tough and stringy, barely any meat on his bones. The dead baby was sweat and succulent, juicy and fat. It's like a drug, to people half-crazed with starvation. 

Curtis and five others are on the prowl, looking for anything after almost two days of not eating. People keep their heads down and their knives close, though, and there's not enough of them to start a big fight. 

"Wait." One of them says, and they stop moving, stop talking. Curtis hears it, the quiet murmur of a baby. The promise of dinner.

They move quickly, searching frantically for the source. Curtis doesn't find it, someone else does, but the mother screams, starts begging and crying and it's not quiet at all. She pushes and kicks at them, trying to get them away from the barrel that hides her baby. Someone grabs her jacket, swings her into Curtis' arms, he's got a knife in one hand, and she's struggling so much, and there's the baby, and Curtis is so hungry.

He twists the knife in his hand, pushes it into her side, and the screaming abruptly stops. There's hot blood on his hands, bright red and violent. It's the first time he's killed someone. She drops from his arms, not quite dead but dying, too weak to support herself. 

"Nice goin' Curtis." Someone says, and walks toward him with the baby, and Curtis smiles because it promises a full meal. He reaches for the baby, intending to slit it's throat and carve it like ham, but someone calls out behind him and everyone turns.

"Give me the knife." It's the old man, the one who knows all about the train. "Double-oh-Seven" they call him. Curtis doesn't know his real name. He looks sad and skinny. "Give me the knife."

Curtis hesitates for a moment, but feels compelled to listen to the old man. He leans back, away from the baby, and adjusts his grip on the knife to hand it to the old man. He takes it calmly, walks over to the nearest flat surface. He puts his left arm on it, holds the knife up, brings it down in one swift movement.

If he makes a sound when his arm is severed, it's drowned out by the astonished cries of the group of kids and the screams of the baby. 

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Curtis yells, staring at the partial limb on the table and then the bleeding stump of the man's arm before he wraps his jacket around it. The knife has fallen onto the floor.

"I want you to eat this." The man says through gritted teeth, and gestures at the limb on the table. "You require flesh, take mine. Spare the baby."

"Why the fuck would you do that?" Someone next to Curtis asks. "That is so retarded." 

By now, everyone in the near vicinity is watching. It feels like the whole train is watching, Curtis decides. 

"I'm not gonna eat your fuckin' arm; I'm gonna eat the fuckin' kid." Says the man next to Curtis. Curtis looks at him, at the baby still screaming in his arms. His brain feels like it was turned off; it's as if he can no longer process thought.

"You need more than one arm, fine. You can have one of mine, too." Another man, one unknown to Curtis, steps forward, picks up the knife, and chops his arm off. He cries out, and they can hear it this time, but he looks no less resolved when he picks up his own severed limb and offers it to them.

"What the fuck is it to you, anyway? You know this kid?" Someone asks. Curtis looks down at the body on the ground, now completely dead. He looks at the blood on his own hands.

"Don't hurt the child." The British man asks, voice hoarse and tired. Curtis looks back up and they lock eyes. Something inside Curtis feels like it shatters and he feels suddenly sick to his stomach. He swallows his own bile back down, wipes his hands on his jacket, and reaches for the baby.

"Just give him the kid." He says. "What difference does it make what you eat? Meat is meat." He's always managed to get his way thus far; he hopes it doesn't stop now.

The man next to him surrenders the baby, but reluctantly. "But babies taste good."

Curtis looks around before responding, holding the baby at arm's length. "Yeah, well, you really want to start a fight?"

"With the limbless pair of idiots?" Someone laughs.

"With us." A new voice replies, and Curtis takes another moment to survey the large crowd that had gathered at some point. The British man seemed to have inspired quite a following in a mere matter of seconds. Curtis wasn't sure how he felt about the fact that he could count himself among the ranks.

"If you pigs need more, you can have one of my arms." Someone shouts, and Curtis knows this isn't going to end well. He has no interest in watching the finale. 

He pushes away and through the crowd, baby still at arm's length. He'll drop it off with Tanya - he suspects she'd be good with kids - and then go vomit into the toilet. Curtis has no idea what could possibly be in his stomach to come up, but he's sure his conscious would find something to punish him with. He killed a woman for a fucking meal, and that man was willing to sacrifice part of his own body...

"Curtis, what're you doin' with that kid?" Tanya asks before he shoves it into her arms and bolts down the car. He makes it round the corner, but not to the toilet.

God, he feels so filthy, so despicable and vile and... and he doesn't even have all the words necessary to describe how bad he is. He'd been eating human flesh for days now, but he'd just killed a woman today. Her blood was all over his clothing, the stains would never come out, he'd be stuck with this forever, the kid would be stuck without her forever--

It brings about a whole knew wave of nausea, and he dry ratchets for minutes before he can stop. He's so terrible...

There's a sound off to his right, like a muffled scream, and it drags Curtis out of his head enough to go investigate. It takes some searching to find the source of the noise, but there's a steady stream of whimpers, so he finds it eventually. It takes him a long moment to understand what he's looking at.

It's the kid. The Ghost. Curtis is relieved he hasn't been eaten yet and vows to protect him, and then his brain catches up with his emotions. There's red all over the kid's mouth and face, dripping down his chin onto his bare chest. There's some type of meat in the kid's hand, and Curtis wonders where he found food. 

"Hey," he starts, and the kid turns to look at him, mouth open, eyes wide with pain and fear. Wet tracks line his face. There's something very wrong with this picture and it's taking Curtis entirely too long to figure out what.

"Are you..." Curtis starts again, then stops as the kid swallows. It's a weird motion, like it's all throat and no tongue...

Curtis doubles over in nausea again with the realization and that's when he sees the bloody knife on the floor, almost too big for the kid to hold. Curtis forces himself to stand up, look at the kid, hold his hand out to him.

"Come on." He gasps, like it's a physical struggle. "Let's get you help."

The kid doesn't take his hand, but does follow him when he goes to find the British man. They get him help, food - or at least someone else's flesh, Curtis thinks - a safe place to sleep off the worst of the pain. He'll never speak again, but he survived.


	3. Identity

A year after it becomes real and permanent, a year after everyone nearly starves to death, a year after Curtis grows up, life settles into a routine. Get up, go to headcount, get your meal. While away the time, another head count, another protein bar. Someone had once asked what the stuff was made out of; they never got an answer.

Watch the kids - there are still a few - work on the scrap ball they're trying to make, stay out of trouble. Mend the clothes, rig the lights, build the beds. Even after a year there's still work to do. Some of the adults train with knives and fists, training for the revolution someone's planning. They won't let Curtis get involved - say he's too young. 

But I've killed someone, Curtis wants to scream. An innocent someone! At least let me kill someone who deserves it.

A year later, half of them are dead and the revolt has failed. Curtis watches as the bodies are dragged away and wonders if they will be added to the protein bars. He doubts very much that the Front sectioners would be forced to cannibalism just yet.

He's very surprised when, a week later, he finds out that Gilliam wants to see him. "Double-of-Seven" they used to call him, because of his accent. Because he acted so smart. Curtis hasn't thought of him like that for two years. And he thinks about Gilliam a lot.

The old man's sitting in his place in the absolute tail of the train, bouncing a baby on his knee. Curtis recognizes the baby instantly. He looks happy, making quiet noises as Gilliam bounces him.

"Have you ever been formally introduced to Edgar, Curtis?" Gilliam asks, looking at Curtis over his glasses. Curtis hasn't moves since stepping inside the curtained area. He can't quite bring himself to. He feels... filthy, all over; something deeper than the dirt ingrained on his skin.

"No." He manages to grit out, and Gilliam nods expectantly. He knew; of course he knew, he was there. 

"Sit down, Curtis." Gilliam says, his voice softer now. And Curtis forces himself to. "Hold him for me." Gilliam continues, and somehow, somehow, Curtis manages to reach out toward the baby.

His skin is soft and warm, and he grabs at Curtis' hands playfully. Curtis moves painfully slowly, as if he might drop and shatter this most fragile thing. Both hands under Edgar's arms, then he's in the air and boy is he heavy, then he's on Curtis' lap still gurgling happily and grabbing at Curtis' fingers, and somehow lightning has not flashed down from the sky to pierce a hole in the car and cook Curtis where he sits.

He looks up at Gilliam, open-mouthed and terrified and more than a little in love already, with the kid in his hands. Gilliam merely smiles, if only for a second.

"The man raising him died in the revolt." Gilliam explains. "I promised I'd find someone to take care of him." Curtis looks down at Edgar, just a little baby - toddler, really, Curtis realizes with a start - and thinks that someday he might be able to raise kids of his own. Not now, though; he can't be responsible for a child now. For now, maybe he can just play with those the Train already has.

Curtis realizes Gilliam hasn't said anything else, and looks up as if to prompt the man on. He's looking at Curtis with a strange gleam in his eye, as if he knows something Curtis doesn't. And then Curtis gets it.

"No." He says, and panic, real and strong, grips his chest and squeezes. "No." He repeats, stronger this time, half shoving Edgar off his lap in his attempt to stand. "No, you can't be serious-"

"Curtis, stop." Gilliam's voice is commanding but calm, and once again Curtis finds himself drawn to obeying. He sits down, but keeps the kid at arm's length.

"You were doing so well until just now." Gilliam says, but Curtis shakes his head. 

"I can't raise a kid-- I can't raise this kid, Gilliam, you know why."

"He needs someone to take care of him. I see no better person than you." Gilliam argues back, far more calmly than Curtis.

"What if he asks about... about her?" Curtis swallows, his voice going hoarse. "What am I supposed to say?"

"The truth." Gilliam says, and Curtis' throat constricts. "She died during the starving time." He pauses to look at Curtis over his glasses again. "Or more, if you can manage it."

"I-- I can't, Gilliam, I-" Curtis starts again, but Gilliam's having none of it.

"You have to, Curtis. No one else can. Everyone else either has too much to worry about, or I don't trust them. You're the only one." Gilliam reaches out and grabs his chin, forcing Curtis to look him in the eye. "You'll to right by Edgar, Curtis. I know you will."

And, suddenly, Curtis realizes he'll say yes. He doesn't remember when he made the decision, or what part of Gilliam's argument brought him around. Just that he will take care of Edgar. The panic is still there, the fear a heavy weight in his gut, and Curtis suspects that's never going to go away. But he can learn to live with it, for Edgar.

"Fine." He forces out, breathless, and pulls Edgar onto his lap. Edgar catches one of his fingers and sticks it in his mouth. Curtis winces as he feels something sharp and hard catch his skin, but doesn't pull his finger out. It feels oddly poetic.

"Careful. He's teething." Gilliam explains, and Curtis nods.

He bundles the kid up to his chest and stands. With one last, long-suffering look at Gilliam - who looks rather pleased with himself - Curtis pushes aside the curtain and nearly trips over the tiny person standing on the other side.

"Shit! What-? Oh, you." Curtis says, looking down at the wisp of a boy Ghost has become. He's still stuffed inside the too-big coat of his, now filthy and stained beyond repair and zippered all the way up, a rare occasion. It's been a long time since Curtis last saw him, watching the men train for the revolution months ago.

"What do you want?" Curtis asks, returning the kid's glare. Ghost's appearances in the past two years have been rare enough, and he only every interacts with Curtis, though no one would call their conversations exactly civil. 

Ghost holds up a fistful of cloth, and Curtis settles Edgar on his hip to take it from him. Pants. Ghost's pants. Ghost wasn't wearing any pants. 

"Too short for you now?" Curtis asks, sizing Ghost up. The kid did grow, he admits to himself. Ghost nods jerkily and scowls even more at Curtis. "Well, let's ask Tanya." Curtis decides. She's good at sowing; she might be able to help them.

Half-an-hour later, Curtis leaves Edgar with Tanya to go track down Ghost, who'd disappeared at the mere mention of another person. Tanya had found an old pair of pants no one wanted - gray with dark strips down the sides - and had hemmed them to what Curtis hoped was Ghost's height.

It takes Curtis hours to find the kid, hiding in an alcove behind empty beds - they'd previously been occupied by members of the revolt - doing pull-ups on one of them. 

"How the fuck did you even get back here?" Curtis asks. He'd had to shove a whole bunk out of the way before he'd been able to get in. Ghost drops to the ground and stares at him, still wrapped in his coat.

"Here." Curtis tosses the pants to him, and he catches them without looking. "I hope they fit, but since you ran off, we couldn't exactly take your measurements." 

Ghost shakes them out and sizes them out, then nods at Curtis. Yes they fit.

Curtis turns to leave, then turns back. "You know, you need a name." He says, and Ghost looks at him with a frown. "People call you anything from 'Italian' to 'Ghost.' You need a name."

Ghost unzips his jacket slightly and points to a black mark on his collarbone. Curtis leans in closer, and can practically feel Ghost's tension. The black mark turns out to be a tattoo. Four letters, spelling out 'Grey,' just below Ghost's left collarbone.

"Grey." Curtis says aloud, leaning back and looking the kid in the eye. "That's what you want to be called."

Grey nods, and Curtis shrugs. "I'll spread it around." He says, and leaves, pushing the beds back into place before he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is turning out to be equally as much about Curtis and Edgar as it is about Grey. But I promise the next chapter will be more Grey-centric.


	4. Desire

It takes a long time for it to finally happen, and Gilliam's been waiting for years, but it does happen. Curtis starts taking an active role in the rebellions, the revolutions, the riots, the revolts, however you call it. Each has it's own label. They all mean the same thing, especially when none of them ever end in anything other than bloodshed. 

The silence of the Tail brought about by the mourning each time is nearly unbearable. Everyone looses someone, often multiple someones. But then Gilliam can go a few years before the next, a few years of normality and stability before the planning starts up again, and the planning itself often takes more than a year. The planning, the training, the preparation. They really are resourceful, the people of the Tail section. 

Curtis started coming to planning meetings after the first failed revolt, after he grew a beard and was considered an adult. They'd been on the Train for eight years at that point. It wasn't until six years and two more bloody revolts later that he started to actively help in the planning instead of just listening. 

It's unsurprising these two are planning the next riot, Gilliam decides as he watches McGregor and Curtis work side by side, talking about different tactics and strategies, trying desperately to minimize the death toll. Gilliam gives them credit; they are certainly devoted. And the pair balance each other out. Curtis wants to plan and analyze every step, while McGregor's Irish temper would rather just run screaming into the fray and hope for the best. Conflicts occur in abundance, but they always come to a good-natured agreement in the end.

Edgar is too young to be included yet, at only fourteen years old. He understands what's going on, and desperately wants to participate, but Curtis won't let him, as well he shouldn't. Not yet. Maybe the next one. So it was Edgar who always hung around the Train, just outside Gilliam's private corner, thrilled to do so much as run a simple errand. 

"Hey, Edgar!" Curtis yells one day, and Edgar throws the curtain back dramatically, a mile-wide grin on his face. 

"Yeah?" He asks, and Gilliam stops listening. Because Grey is standing just behind him and off to the side, leaning against the wall of the train and looking down at Edgar with a blank expression. 

Gilliam hasn't seen Grey for almost a decade. It seems an impossible thing to do, on a train, but Gilliam didn't get out much, and Grey didn't interact with anyone but Curtis when he needed something. Curtis said it wasn't uncommon to go half a year without seeing the elusive child.

But he's not a child anymore, Gilliam thinks, taking in the long, sharp lines of Grey. Gilliam guesses he's be almost as tall as Curtis now, and while not as broad he's certainly strong, if the way he holds himself is any judge. He's grown into his coat, even if it is still baggy. He'd be twenty-three by now, Gilliam thinks.

"Grey." Curtis says by way of greeting, and Grey nods. McGregor looks up in surprise. He's probably seen about as much of Grey as Gilliam. 

"Edgar," Curtis starts, moving on. "Remember that thing I showed you yesterday?" The boy nods. "I need you to go get it for me."

"Okay!" Edgar practically yells and goes flying up the Train, leaving the curtain wide open. Curtis reaches to close it but Gilliam waves him off.

"Leave it. I'm going for a walk." Curtis looks at him with a frown, so Gilliam elaborates. "It's about time I saw the rest of the train again."

Curtis shrugs. He never did argue with Gilliam much. "Do you need any help?"

"I'll manage." Gilliam responds, and though he knows he could probably use it, Curtis and McGregor are working. He doesn't want to disturb them.

He pushes himself to his feet and limps the few steps to the curtain. It's going to be a long walk, he realizes belatedly. Grey's watching him with sharp eyes and Gilliam has no doubt Grey can see him struggle. But he won't offer to help; it's not in his nature...

"Would you care to join me, Grey?" Gilliam asks, and Grey's face goes slack with surprise.

"Auh, Gilliam?" Curtis says from behind, and Gilliam turns indulgently. "Grey doesn't really... like to... interact... with other people much." Curtis looks almost apologetic for saying so, but Gilliam knows it's true.

"Just thought I'd ask." Gilliam turns to look at Grey again, who's regarding him with much more cautious eyes than before. Nonetheless, he pushes himself off the wall and moves slowly over to Gilliam. He puts his hand under Gilliam's arm and takes some of his weight. They start moving again, slowly, but much less painfully.

Gilliam knows better than to strike up a conversation until Grey can use his hands, so instead he talks to the people they pass. Everyone is glad to see him and wants to talk - he's seen as their leader, still - and it takes them an hour to get to the front of the Tail section. 

"Let's stop here." He suggests to Grey, both because he wants to talk and because he's tired. Grey helps him to some kind of old cargo box to sit down, then crouches down in front of him, watching Gilliam's face. Grey's own expression is much more open than it was an hour ago, his brown eyes big and looking almost a dark shade of red in the light of the train.

"And how have you been, Grey?" Gilliam asks him the same question he's been asking everyone else.

Grey looks down at his right arm, pushing up the sleeve of his coat to reveal black tattoos covering the whole arm. He pushes the jacket up past his elbow and rotates his arm to show Gilliam a particular tattoo. 'Good'

"So this is how you communicate..." Gilliam says, stroking a finger over the tattoo. He can feel Grey's muscles tense under his fingers as they trace down his arm, examining all the words. "Do you have every language spoken in the Tail section on your body?" 

Grey nods his assent.

"Do you understand all of those languages?"

Grey nods again, a hint of pride in his eyes and the barest of smiles on his lips. He relaxes slightly under Gilliam's touch.

"And how many are there?"

Grey pulls his arm from Gilliam's grasp and moves aside part of his jacket from his chest. There's a long row of hash marks there, and Grey puts his thumbnail next to one. Gilliam counts.

"Seven." 

Grey nods.

"Impressive."

Grey smiles.

"Did you do these yourself?" Gilliam asks as he pushes the other side of Grey's jacket off his chest to see the rest of the tattoos. Some appear to be just decoration, but most contribute in some way to communication. It's very clever, Gilliam thinks.

Grey nods yes to Gilliam's question.

Gilliam looks back to Grey's tattooed arm; the right one. "Are you left-handed?"

Grey holds up first his left hand - palm up - and nods, then his right hand in the same position and nods again.

"Ambidextrous. Again, impressive." 

Grey frowns.

"Ambidextrous means you can use both hands equally well." Gilliam explains and Grey's expression clears to one of understanding then another smile. He clearly doesn't get enough praise, Gilliam thinks.

There's the sound of a baby crying, and they both look over to see Tanya pick up her months-old child. She apparently decides he's hungry and starts unbuttoning her blouse. It's good to see kids being born, Gilliam decides, even though they will never know what the world looks like.

He turns to look at Grey, whose attention has already wandered to other parts of the Train. Gilliam watches as his eyes flit around the car, taking in every detail. Gilliam wonders how much Grey overhears on a regular basis, since no one ever knows where he is.

"What do you think of the planned riot, Grey?" Gilliam finally asks, and those sharp eyes snap back to Gilliam's. 

Grey lets his eyes wander as he considers the question before looking back down at his right arm. He holds up 'good' again, before pushing up the left sleeve and rolling his elbow to show the word 'Front' just below the inside of it. He goes back to his right arm to rotate his wrist to show the words 'surrender' and then 'die' in quick succession. He looks back at Gilliam.

"So it's a good plan." Gilliam translates. "You think the Front should surrender or die."

Grey gives a small and cold smile.

"Are you going to fight?" 

Grey shrugs.

 

 

After that walk, Grey starts spending a lot more time around Gilliam. The visits start out infrequently, once a week at most, but after two months he starts spending multiple days - full days - around Gilliam. He always disappears when Curtis and McGregor show up - he wants no part in the planning of the riot - but he comes back when they leave.

He listens as Gilliam talks, rarely making any comment of his own, and helps Gilliam go through simple, day-to-day tasks. Gilliam isn't sure why Grey suddenly latched onto him, but Curtis doesn't seem to mind at all. The two never got along particularly well, apparently.

After six months, Grey spends his first night. A week later, he spends his second. A week after that, two more, and so it continues until he's sleeping curled next to Gilliam every night. It's oddly reassuring, Gilliam decides, to have a body next to him again.

Almost a year after the first walk, they're lying next to each other, waiting for the lights to go out. Grey squirms around until he gets to a position where he'd be facing Gilliam, and though Gilliam's eyes are closed, he knows Grey's are not.

He opens his eyes just as the lights go out, and they're plunged into instant darkness. Gilliam can feel Grey's hand slide up his torso, over his neck, and settle lightly over Gilliam's cheek. It's almost not touching Gilliam's skin at all, so gentle is Grey being. Gilliam is unsurprised; Grey usually does not initiate physical contact like this.

And then Grey's lips are on Gilliam's. The kiss is so light and seems to last less than a second before Grey is pulling away. Gilliam moves his good hand to the back of Grey's neck and holds him there - not enough to trap, just enough to anchor - as he kisses Grey back, longer and deeper. Grey responds eagerly, and Gilliam continues, even as some part of his brain says this is probably not a good idea, there's probably something wrong with this. He ignores it and looses himself in sensation.


	5. Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long, but I've been out of WiFi since Tuesday and I've also been really busy. I hope to wrap this up today, just fyi.  
> Thanks to everyone who's reading this, and enjoy!

When Curtis is finally allowed to participate in the planning for the revolutions, he is thrilled, but no one seems to take his ideas very seriously. So he rarely - if ever - opens his mouth. He figures he can learn more if he shuts up, anyway. He's not a very talkative person anymore, so it's not difficult.

He trains with them, he takes orders from the various people who try to lead, but - more than anything - he learns from them all. After the first revolt, he learns about the dangers of being unprepared. Three years later, after the second, he learns about the dangers of being a leader. Greg's head stayed up in the front of the Tail section for months before Mason finally ordered it disposed of.

So when McGregor says he's going to try again, barely a year after the last revolution, Curtis tells him to take the lead. Lets McGregor make the final call. Doesn't want his name put on the thing in any way; it's not his time yet. Soon, maybe. But not now. He's not a leader. McGregor is, when there's someone to curb his impulsive temper. 

And that Curtis can do. They balance each other out nicely, as Curtis learns that he's far too prep-heavy, far too worried about the mights and coulds and the what ifs. But McGregor would simply prefer to find the nearest blunt object and run screaming for the gates. So McGregor keeps Curtis from thinking and not acting, and Curtis keeps McGregor from getting them all killed before the riot can even get started. They work together. And they work well as a team.

But none of it would be possible without Gilliam. Gilliam, who seems to know nearly everything about the Train. Gilliam, who tells him caution is good, but up to a point. Gilliam, who helps them find their balance and listens and critiques their plans and keeps them from killing each other.

Gilliam, who is sleeping with Grey.

It takes Curtis by complete surprise, that Grey would - could - ever trust someone in that way. And it takes a long time for it to happen, too; Curtis is sure of that looking back. Slowly, painfully so, over the year leading up to their riot. It starts, Curtis thinks, with that walk Gilliam took. The one where he asked Grey to come.

Curtis doesn't think either one of them knew what would happen. Gilliam wouldn't do that, and no one could have guessed it from Grey. But after that, after months of hiding out in Gilliam's place to plan in security and quiet, Curtis realized Grey was there more often than not. And then Grey stopped going away when they came. He waited outside, yes; kept an eye on Edgar. But he didn't run away, and went right back in with Gilliam when they left.

And then, suddenly, practically overnight, the pair became inseparable. Grey still went outside while Curtis and McGregor plotted, but of course he did; he had no interest in revolution. And Grey followed Gilliam everywhere. Grey pushed Gilliam's wheelchair, and Grey helped Gilliam walk if he needed it, and Grey was suddenly fiercely protective of someone he probably hadn't even remembered from fourteen years ago.

It's not as if Curtis cares; it's not like it bothers him. Surprises him, yes. Absolutely. But does he think less of either of them for it? No. Gilliam found happiness; they both did. That much is obvious. God knows they could all use some of that on this fucking Train; Curtis would never begrudge anyone that.

 

"We go tomorrow." McGregor says with a decisive nod. Curtis nods back in agreement, though McGregor would go with our without his assent at this point. A year of planning was comfortable for Curtis, but far too long for McGregor. He was ready for action. And by this time, everyone else in the Tail section was, too.

Gilliam presses his lips together thoughtfully. "You still need someone to slip by the guards early on, to make sure the gates aren't immediately closed." Curtis nods, unconsciously looking forward in the Train. They needed someone to keep as many of the first three gates open as possible, so they had access he the mechanisms that controlled the Tail section including - hopefully - more of the gates farther forward. To do that job, you needed to be small and fast and lethal.

"Edgar said he'd do it." McGregor says, and Curtis' eyes snap back to him. 

"Edgar's not doing it." He says, and there's no room for doubt in his voice. McGregor shakes his head.

"This job's important; we can't go if we don't have anyone to do it."

"Find somebody else then. Edgar's not ready."

"Nobody would ever be ready if it was left up to you, Curtis. Good is never good enough!" McGregor snaps, his temper flaring. "Edgar can do it. He's old enough."

"No." Curtis shakes his head with venom. "He's fourteen."

"That's old enough--"

"No!"

"God, Curtis--!"

"Gentlemen!" Gilliam's voice, though not any louder than theirs, rings above the argument, silencing it immediately. Curtis clears his face of emotion and looks at Gilliam. McGregor scowls at him, but also watches.

"Curtis, would you ask Grey to come in here, please." Gilliam's voice is back to it's normal low rumble. Curtis blinks at the request, but twists and flicks the curtain out of the way.

"Grey." The young man's head snaps around and Curtis continues. "Gilliam wants you."

Grey moves instantly, standing and walking through the curtain quickly. He navigates around Curtis and McGregor and crouches down next to Gilliam, head tilted with curiosity.

"Grey, Curtis and McGregor need to place one final pawn for their riot to work. I want you to listen to what they need and tell me if you can do it."

Curtis takes a deep breath, surprised by Gilliam's order. Grey only nods and settles himself cross-legged on the floor in front of Curtis and McGregor, watching them expectantly.

McGregor explains quickly what Grey would need to do, and Curtis realizes Grey would be perfect for the job. He's skinny, fast, good at getting where he doesn't belong. And he's lethal with that knife of his. Even without the knife, his body is a weapon.

When McGregor stops talking, Grey nods once at them, then turns and nods again to Gilliam. 'Yes, I can do it.'

"But it'll be dangerous." Curtis throws in, because maybe they haven't realized that yet. "You'll be on your own back there, and if the gates close we won't be able to help you at all."

"All you need to do is make sure that doesn't happen, and everything'll be fine." McGregor counters, throwing Curtis a look.

Grey turns back to Gilliam and nods again. His whole body radiates cool confidence, and Curtis worries.

"Then I want you to go with them, Grey. They'll need your help." Gilliam says, waving his good arm forward toward the Train. Grey frowns and something seems to pass between him and Gilliam. "I'll be fine. They'll need you more than I will." Gilliam reassures. Grey nods and turns to McGregor. He holds out his hand, very business-like, and McGregor takes it. They shake, firm and confident.

Grey holds out his hand to Curtis, who takes it much more slowly. Grey's grip is firm and his hands surprisingly cold. Grey looks Curtis in the eye as they shake, much more slowly, much more emphatically, as if Grey is trying to say 'I can do this. I am capable.' Grey holds his gaze for a moment longer after they let go before turning away and settling next to Gilliam.

"Tomorrow then." McGregor says as he stands. There's excitement and defiance in his voice when he continues, "We'll show the bloody bastards."

Curtis nods but doesn't stand, doesn't follow him as he walks through the curtain. He stares at the hard metal ground for a long moment, listening to the creak of the Train and feeling the rock of the car.

"What's the matter, Curtis?" Gilliam finally asks, and Curtis looks up to see his and Grey's eyes both watching him. He flicks his gaze between the two, over the way Grey's hanging onto Gilliam like it's salvation itself.

"It'll be dangerous." He says, and his eyes settle on Grey's. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

"We don't appear to have much of a choice." Gilliam says.

"We could wait, find another person-- or find another way, that'd be better; this whole plan's held together by hope and a prayer--" Curtis talks quickly, eyes roaming around Gilliam's section as he rambles and thinks. Gilliam interrupts him, but only after Curtis has let off a little steam.

"Hope and prayer has moved mountains in the past, Curtis." Gilliam says, not unkindly, and Grey smiles. "And McGregor has significantly more than that. There is no right way to have a revolution here; no easy way. And McGregor isn't waiting any longer for you to try and find it."

Curtis shakes his head, but he knows Gilliam's right; there is no good way of doing this. 

"I still don't like it."

Grey slaps him lightly on the shoulder and Curtis looks up. Grey's rolled up his right sleeve and rotates his arm to show Curtis a word tattooed there, 'good.' He lets Curtis look for a second before changing position to pull the right side of his jacket over. 'Fight' is tattooed over his ribs, and he points to it for another second. Curtis lets his eyes wander and sees Gilliam's name tattooed over Grey's heart. He wonders when that happened. Grey twists again, and the word 'victory' comes into view on his right shoulder.

'It will be a good fight and we will be victorious.'

Curtis sighs, worry still in his gut. "I hope your right."


	6. Riot

Grey goes to the front row of the headcount lineup, for the first time since he first got on the Train. Curtis, in his usual spot, can still remember that day. He hopes today will end with better results than that minor defiance had.

Everyone around him has a weapon of some sort. There are lots of heavy, blunt objects like pipes, but there's also lots of metal, sharpened to a cutting edge. It catches the light, and Curtis wonders how they're not noticed as the guards move around in front. His own makeshift knife rests heavy in his hand.

The guards shuffle around up front, preparing for the headcount. If they notice that the order the Tail sectioners are standing in has changed, they don't say anything. Only the soldiers could be at the front, according to McGregor, and Curtis agreed. They didn't need anyone to get caught in the conflict by accident.

Grey turns to look at McGregor just as the first guard steps forward to start the headcount. McGregor gives a short nod and Curtis tightens his grip on his knife. Grey looks forward again and Curtis can see him strip off his coat as he prepares to go.

"Alright, first row--" The guard starts his spiel in a bored drawl. Perfect, Curtis thinks. They'll be slow to respond.

"Now!" McGregor yells and everyone starts yelling at once as they surge forward. Curtis pushes for the first gate, trying to be one of the first through, but it's relatively slow. He reaches it as the first guards are killed and sees Grey one gate ahead of him, yanking his knife out of a guard's neck. He doesn't look back, doesn't stop, as he darts to the next one. It's already closing and Curtis thinks they're in trouble already.

"Grey!" He yells, but Grey drops to the ground and slides under the gate as it closes. A guard suddenly appears in front of Curtis and he lashes out, throwing a round-house punch that nocks the man off his feet. He's out cold.

Curtis keeps moving, pushing past others who have stopped to deal with guards and through the second gate. He can see Grey fighting with a handful of guards on the other side of the third. Curtis slits the throat of a guard trying to call for help, and wrestles a gun away from a second. He slams the stock of it into his shoulder, takes a breath, aims, and fires.

The bullet travels through the grates of the third gate and hits one of the guards Grey was struggling with in the shoulder. He's thrown back by the force of the impact and hits the ground screaming. Curtis yanks on the bolt handle to load another bullet.

One of the guards grabs Grey's wrist and squeezes. Grey drops the knife, his mouth opening in a silent expression of pain. Another guard picks up the knife and swings at Grey, catching him over the left side of his chest. Curtis can see blood on the knife as the guard swings again, but they Grey twists and Curtis can't see anymore.

He aims for the guard with the knife as he pulls back for another swing. A third guard has an arm around Grey's neck, he can't move out of the path of the knife. Curtis pulls the trigger back as something heavy lands on his shoulder. He feels the crack of the rifle and then is pulled violently to the left and pushed onto the ground. The gun falls out of his grasp.

There's a guard standing over him, blood running from a gash on his forehead. He kicks Curtis in the ribs, low, and Curtis can hear something crack. He sucks in a breath and pain dances like fire over his closed eyelids. He wraps his arms around his head. Another kick lands a little lower, over his stomach, and Curtis yells in pain.

He hears other footsteps pounding on the ground and the guard stops kicking. Curtis opens his eyes and lowers his hands from around his head. Two other Tailies have the guard in a death grip, and others are flooding into the car. The pain has faded to a dull ache, so Curtis pushes himself to his feet. He's lost the knife and someone else picked up the gun, but he knows he can use his fists.

He half-walks, half-trips over to the gate and sees Grey push his knife into a guard's throat. The others are all dead. A moment later, Grey yanks the knife out and the guard drops to the ground. Grey limps over to the wall and pushes buttons until it opens.

The Tailies flood through the gate, opening cabinets and drawers searching for weapons or food. Curtis stops in front of Grey. He's panting, there are bruises already forming around his neck and over his arms, and he's got two deep cuts on his chest.

"You did good." Curtis says, because he learned long ago that praise was the way to get Grey to cooperate. Not that his words were untrue, though. "But we don't need you're help anymore. Go back, get that looked at."

To Curtis' relief, Grey just nods. He looks tired and in pain, hunched into himself like that. He takes a step and nearly falls as his leg suddenly gives out. Curtis catches him easily and wraps an arm around his shoulders. 

"I'll help you." He says flatly, and only tightens his grip when Grey shakes his head. But he doesn't pull away, and that makes Curtis worry even more.

They don't make it a step before McGregor suddenly appears in front of them. He's coated in blood and has a slightly manic smile on his face.

"We did it Curtis! We've got to keep going! Come on, lad!" He gestures forward, and looks like he can't bare to stand still for much longer.

"You go on. I need to help Grey." Curtis can hear the exhaustion in his own voice, and they hadn't even gone very far. He'd had no idea a riot would be so... everything. McGregor opens his mouth like he's about to argue, but Curtis knows neither of them can wait any longer. "This is your riot. You lead them."

McGregor nods and storms away without another word. Curtis and Grey work their slow and painful way through the tide of people filling the cars. Curtis' ribs start to hurt in ernest now, and as light as Grey had felt, he's getting very heavy very quickly. 

They make it back to the first car in the Tail section proper, and Tanya is there with bandages and water. Gilliam isn't far behind, and Grey goes straight to him, makes Tanya come to him when she wants to look at him. Edgar appears by Curtis and won't leave, but part of him doesn't want Edgar to go anyway, so he doesn't fight. Despite the fact he's covered in other people's blood. Him and Grey both.

 

Grey has a sprained ankle, and the cuts on his chest are an inch deep. Tanya worries about the bruises on his neck, but since he can breathe, she decides he'll be alright. Grey's most worried about his ankle. Gilliam's very calm during the whole thing, but Curtis can see an unfamiliar something in his eyes.

Tanya decides Curtis had broken his ribs and won't let him leave again, so he spends the time taking stock of the casualties with Gilliam. They lost a lot of people, good people, and Curtis has no doubt the numbers are only growing as they sit.

Hours later - Curtis looses count how many - he's watching the empty, open gates in front of him when he hears gunfire and screams coming from further up the Train. Everyone hears it, and Edgar bolts for the gate. Curtis catches him with a grunt as he pulls his ribs, and thankfully Edgar does't struggle. The entire car is silent, listening to the sounds echoing from up ahead.

It could have been seconds, it could have been minutes, it could have been hours later, when the first people come running back. Drenched in blood, many limping or nursing other injuries, they're moving quickly with fear on their faces, and Curtis can feel Edgar's heart beat speed up impossibly faster.

He pushes Edgar into the nearest person's arms and forces himself to his feet. He grabs the first person who stumbles through the gate. 

"They're coming!" The man gasps between ragged breaths. "Dozens of them, with an endless supply of bullets. They're going to shoot everyone involved with the riot!"

Curtis can barely breath, can barely stand. He's surprised he's still thinking at all. He turns to look at Gilliam, sees that Edgar ended up in Grey's hands, Grey's hands still wet with blood. This wasn't going as planned.

"Everybody back!" He yells, and ignores the pain. "Everybody go back into the Tail section, deep. Get someone to help you hide. They have no way of knowing who survived and who didn't, and we can come out after they go."

Everyone starts moving at once, an impressive display, really. Curtis pushes the man forward and watches as someone helps him disappear into the maze that was the Tail section. Gilliam is saying something to Grey, who nods and disappears after everyone else. Curtis goes over to Tanya first.

"You need to clean up, all of the first aid stuff. Hide it all. I know other people are going to come through those gates and need it, but it'll have to wait. You can't get caught with it." Curtis doesn't give her a chance to argue as he turns to Edgar, who has blood-stained handprints on his clothes.

"Give me your shirt." Curtis says, helping Edgar tug it over his head. "Go find a new one and then go to your bunk. Don't talk to anyone until the guards go. Okay?" Edgar nods, wide-eyed but focused. "Good. Go." Curtis pushes him and watches as he runs to his bunk. Curtis can see Grey pointing to hiding spots and realizes that must have been Gilliam's order.

Someone bumps into his shoulder, and he turns to see someone else who'd fought with McGregor. He opens his mouth to tell him to hide, but the soldier beats him to it.

"You should have been there, Curtis. We needed a leader." The man gasps. 

"I'm not--" Curtis cuts himself off with a shake of his head. "Go hide." He pushes the man off, and takes a deep breath, one last look around, and searches out a place to hide himself. 

He ends up tucked next to Grey behind a bunk covered in blankets that act as curtains. Both of them hold their breath as the guards stomp their way through the Tail section. Curtis can't stop thinking about what the man said, and wonders if this really is his fault. He looks over at Grey, and his heart aches because how is someone supposed to make a choice like that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! All done. Thanks to everyone who read this, I love each and every one of you. Hope you enjoyed reading, I definitely enjoyed writing it!  
> Thanks again, and feel free to comment if you have questions, suggestions, or found an error. Or just want to say 'hi.' I don't bite. Well, I might bite... (reference!)


End file.
